


(You Take My) Self Control

by honey_wheeler



Series: The HOA AU [1]
Category: The White Princess (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: It’s by far the most intimate thing they’ve done. They’ve kissed before but only barely, light, perfunctory kisses meant to seal the deal of their marriage – really, Lizzie ought to call it an alliance, like they’re some sort of old monarchs coming together out of mutual need and benefit, with love being little more than a vague, distant possibility.





	(You Take My) Self Control

**Author's Note:**

> The HOA AU - wherein Henry and Lizzie marry for vague non-romantic reasons and grow to love each other while Lizzie wages war on bitches in their neighborhood. You know, that old trope.

It’s always been a problem. “Elizabeth is very smart and creative, but very impulsive,” her teachers had written. “Struggles with discipline,” sometimes, or “Often acts before thinking.” Once, most damningly, “Poor self control.” Lizzie hadn’t liked Miss Perch anyway. She’d gotten better, working at it the way she worked at mastering mathematics, or becoming fluent in Spanish, but curbing her impulses has never come naturally to her.

Which is most likely why she finds herself reaching for her soon-to-be husband’s belt buckle in the car outside their rehearsal supper, without a word spoken between them. It hadn’t quite been the pre-wedding event Lizzie would have hoped for when she was younger, though to be fair, all her thoughts were on the wedding and the wedding night, rather than on anything as mundane as a rehearsal supper. It wasn’t hostile or unpleasant, something Lizzie had worried over, given her sometimes combative history with Henry, and the unusual circumstances of their engagement (Lizzie had thought marrying someone you can only just tolerate in order to gain control of an inheritance was something that only happened in films), but neither was it happy or pleasant. What’s more, Henry had given as good as he got, parrying her tart jokes and subtle challenges with dry wit and affable resistance. She supposes that’s what makes her reach for him once they’re in the car, both of them quiet and absorbed in thought after celebrating the impending marriage neither of them truly wants to have; part of her needs to know she can have some power over him, if she’s to be tied to him for no small number of years, even if it’s only because she can make him want her.

At first he says nothing, just pausing in reaching for the seatbelt, his arm hovering over hers in surprise. He lets her fumble with the buckle for long moments, the angle odd and unfamiliar, and not especially suited for smooth seduction. Lizzie almost laughs. _Poor impulse control._

“Lizzie,” he says finally, once she has his cock freed from his trousers, but she wraps her hand around him and leans forward to take him in her mouth, and whatever else he might have said dies in his throat.

It’s by far the most intimate thing they’ve done. They’ve kissed before but only barely, light, perfunctory kisses meant to seal the deal of their marriage – really, Lizzie ought to call it an alliance, like they’re some sort of old monarchs coming together out of mutual need and benefit, with love being little more than a vague, distant possibility.

He would be a good kisser, she thinks as she swirls her tongue in a way she knows from experience is quite effective.

The hand he had reaching for his seatbelt finally settles on the back of her head. She stiffens, bracing herself for him to push her head down. Or if he’s as bloody noble as she suspects, he’ll pull her away, telling her she doesn’t owe him sex just because they’re going to be married. But his fingers just curl loosely in her hair, the pads of his fingers rubbing gently against her scalp as she works to get him off.

It’s more of that poor impulse control that she lets his hand on her threaten to change the whole thing from a challenge to a gift. She has to remind herself that this was about finding control, not about pleasing him. That she wants to show him who he’s dealing with, not that she suddenly desperately wants to hear what he sounds like when he comes.

 _Dammit, Lizzie_ , she thinks to herself. Miss Perch was right.


End file.
